to a quick hot shower after running in the cold and wet at the track after sunset
to air-frying the steak quesadilla Peter made last night and set aside for me … and savoring it standing up in the kitchen
to sailing down Green Tree hill and through the tunnels to receive a weathered city that only glistens at night
to having a pick of parking spots next to the park where people are still pickleballing under the lights
to the luminous marquis of the old Garden Theater standing as proud reminder to never let our past define our possibility
to walking into Alphabet City and finding it full, just as the mighty Alexis was preambling the evening’s program
to grabbing the last seat at the bar, left open because it couldn’t see the stage … but it could see the drummer, which is exactly what you came to see
to a septet breaking into Perdido breaking like a fresh egg over your week’s bowl, seeping down and through all the way to the bottom
to the drummer excusing everyone but the piano, bass and guitar, leaving them to Nat King Cole the shit outta’ Stompin’ at the Savoy, painting life so beautiful in black and white
to the trombone player’s tone on I Can’t Get Started, as full and warm as the bourbon in my second Soothsayer
to the piano player pouring himself Body and Soul, exploring till he found that chord he knew was in there, causing the sax player bowing her head to smile around her mouthpiece … and look up and over to him and nod
to the in-betweens of the bandleader preaching sermons on St. Norman Granz and Jazz at the Philharmonic
to listening with an irrepressible smile of my own to 90 minutes of combinations, educations and improvisations orchestrated as neatly as a bento box, leaving me not full just satisfied
to driving back home in reverie in no great hurry
to pulling in the driveway pushing 9:30 and finding the outside light on and Peter shooting hoops
to stepping into a rebound and dishing his layup
to settling into old familiar rhythms
to knowing it’s in when it leaves your hand
to feeding him in stride and him splashing one after another after another
to seeing your November breath while staying out way past dark on a school night
to calling it, but not before each ending on a make
Ten years later I came along … and surprised all involved parties.
My three sisters and brother are all between 10 and 15 years older than me.
I grew up … looking up.
To a person they held up their ends of the big sibling bargain.
Kim bought me my first album at the National Record Mart. Let me pick it out myself. Still remember the words to every song.
Laurie didn’t shoo me away when she’d invite her pretty friends over (swoon).
Kenny would take me with him on his pilgrimages to WVU when he was teaching there. Always let me pick out some Mountaineer gear at the bookstore.
Missy taught me my letters, numbers and punctuation marks by drawing them in soap on my back during bath time and having me guess what she drew. When my kids were little, I employed the Missy Method.
As a bonus … I knew all the cuss words before my friends did. As I remember it, Kim and Kenny did the heavy lifting there.
At home the five of us were spread across the three upstairs bedrooms.
Kim, the oldest, had a small bedroom to herself. Laurie and Liss shared the big bedroom across the hall. My brother took me in during the expansion draft of 1970.
After graduating high school, Kim joined the Marines (um, as one does). Laurie, popular with the boys, got married a couple years after she graduated.
Kenny went away to college when he graduated, which left just me and Liss at home.
I had just turned seven.
Towards the end of the summer Kenny went away to school, Liss spent a week of vacation away from home (with my aunt, I think).
It was the first time I had to sleep upstairs by myself.
I couldn’t do it.
Scared me.
The wooden floors creaked.
And it was really dark in my room.
There was a light in the hall but it was too bright to keep my door open, so I’d have to close it tight. I could only see a sliver of light between the bottom of the door and the floor. I was always afraid I’d see shadows of footsteps in the hall … like I saw on a scary TV show once.
There were two, big deep closets in my bedroom. I had clothes in one, the other one I was told not to open. Always imagined monsters lived in that one.
Dad was on ‘tuck-in’ duty that summer.
It was also the summer he taught me the Our Father.
I remember us taking turns with the lines.
Me: Our Father, who art in heaven …
He: … hallowed by thy name.
etc.
Once I had it down, I’d vary the line breaks.
He’d pick up where I left off.
Me: Thy will …
He: … be done.
Me: Give us this day our daily …
He: … bread.
Kept us payin’ attention.
I’d follow it up with the requisite “God Blesses,” starting with “Mom, Dad, Lissy, Laurie, Kimmy and Kenny,” and work backwards from there.
It’s funny the things we remember.
The first night Liss was away, after trading lines and tucking in, Dad went back downstairs.
I lasted maybe 10-15 minutes with the creaky floors, the light under the door … whatever was lurking in the closet.
Got outta bed and trudged back down the 14 steps.
Told my parents that I missed Liss and was too scared to sleep upstairs by myself.
I think I lobbied to sleep on the couch in the living room … unsuccessfully.
I remember Dad walking me back up.
Tucking me in again.
Closing the door behind him.
And going only as far as the tiny hallway, which was really just a landing.
Sat down on the top step.
He’d brought his Bible with him.
Cracked it open and read under the hall’s bright light.
I couldn’t see him.
Even if I left the door open, the top of the steps were parallel to my room, hidden from my view.
So I’d call out … to make sure he hadn’t gone back downstairs.
“Still there, Dad?”
“Yep,” he’d reply.
“Still here.”
Even though I couldn’t see him, just knowing he was there … made things better.
I liked his chances against the monster lurking in my closet.
I don’t know how long he stayed that first night.
Until I fell asleep is all I know.
I had trouble falling asleep every night Missy was away.
After we’d “Our Father,” Dad would close the door behind him, go sit on the top step and read his Bible.
There were at least a couple of nights — maybe all of ’em — I couldn’t fall asleep right away.
I was a big worrier back then.
On those nights I’d test the emergency broadcast system more than once.
Sometimes a few times.
“Still there, Dad?”
“Yep … Still here.”
No matter how late it got.
No matter how many times I asked.
Each time … “Still here.”
Not sure how long I made him sit there.
Several chapters worth is my best guess … which is more Bible ground than I’ve covered in a while.
Until I fell asleep is all I know.
__
Last Sunday would have been Dad’s 98th birthday.
My sisters and brother were blowing up the group chat all morning.
We’re about 50 years removed from our last sleepover.
To a person they are still holding up their ends of the big sibling bargain.
I think of my Dad every day.
When I hear certain tunes.
When I retell the same stories.
When the world gets scary.
When I remember to say the Our Father and God Blesses in my head before bed.
I can still hear him finishing the lines sometimes.
When I can’t fall back asleep.
I can’t see him.
But I know he’s there.
In my mind he’s sitting on the top step reading his Bible under the bright light.
So last Saturday afternoon … my wife, son and I are sweating in the shade underneath our backyard deck, after triple-teaming the mowing and trimming in the high heat.
They ask me to come up with something fun for the evening.
This never happens.
They usually don’t trust me with The Decisions.
Admittedly, my track record’s … spotty.
Heat must’ve been fogging their judgement.
Sensing a fleeting moment, I brainstormed in earnest.
Found a movie I thought might fit the Venn diagram of our disparate interests — low-stakes, light-comedy with slapstick potential … no heavy themes or deep thinking required.
Showing in Squirrel Hill at their delightful, restored (and air-conditioned) downtown theater none of us had ever been to.
5:30 showing.
About an hour’s drive away from where we were sitting and sweating at 3:30 in the afternoon.
Gave us a good hour to get cleaned up.
Ran the idea past the committee, along with a suggestion for dinner afterwards.
No violent objections.
“Want me to buy tickets?”
Nods.
“We’ll have to leave by 4:30. Everybody good with that?”
Before locking it in, I made each of them give me a verbal … like they do for exit rows.
So four-thirty comes.
I’m showered, dressed and ready.
Karry, too.
I look out the window and see my son standing in the driveway.
Changing his oil.
I do a double-take.
Initiate seething protocols.
Walk outside.
Say the dumbest thing I can think of.
“You’re not changing your oil,” I say to the grown adult standing in front of me … holding a jug of oil.
Which prompts the following exchange
He: Be done in a minute.
Me: It’s 4:30.
He: It’s not going to take us an hour to get there.
Me: (clenching jaw, taking several seconds to locate the shit in my mind that I am losing … before temporarily regaining the power of speech) There are few things I hate more than missing the start of a movie. Just sharing the fact of that with you.
I turn and go back inside.
Seething level: roiling boil.
I can’t help myself.
The prospect of being late while waiting for others has always made me spiral.
When my oldest was younger, I spent a lot of time spiraling.
Oh, was he a dawdler.
Among the greatest of his generation.
No amount of yelling or cajoling could ever make him move any faster.
He kept time according to his own internal clock. Remarkably, he never let it stress him, either … no matter how much or how loudly it stressed those around him.
Pretty much grew out of it by college, though.
I hadn’t seen any evidence of it for years.
So … finding him in the driveway changing his oil at Agreed-Upon-Go-Time … reminded me how awfully I used to deal with it when I was a younger parent.
I knew (and remembered) enough to know that if I let Seething Protocols reach Def Con Hot Magma, the evening would not turn out well for anyone ….
And I could kiss any future contributions to The Decisions goodbye.
It was at that moment that Jim’s letter caught my eye, lying on the dining room table.
Had come in the mail that day.
It’d been weeks since I’d since I’d heard from him, since I’d last sent him something I’d written.
Knowing he’s in his 90s, and having come to expect his prompt (and extraordinarily wonderful) replies, I feared that maybe he’d been having health issues.
So when I saw his familiar hand-writing on the front of the envelope while fishing the day’s mail from the box, it immediately sparked both relief and joy.
Accompanying his letters are always recent poems he’s written. He writes them all out by hand, in near-calligraphic quality. Sends me photo copies.
I keep them all in an overflowing manilla envelope in the top drawer of the desk where I’m typing this.
He writes so beautifully and unflinchingly about his long life, about growing old. His verse bursts with both aliveness and ache, his words suffused with such wise noticings.
I hope to someday write as well as Jim does in his 90s.
While walking back from the mailbox, I decided on the spot to wait to open his letter … to give my Sunday something to look forward to.
But seeing it lying on the dining room table while feeling the minutes tick further and further past our agreed-upon departure, I could think of no better way to invest whatever time it would take for my son to shower and get dressed.
So I reached for Jim’s letter like it was a life preserver.
Which it was.
In every sense of the words.
I was right … he had had a health scare.
He wrote me from his bed at Washington Hospital, where he’d spent the previous four days in the care of doctors working to reduce the fluid in his lungs from his weakening heart.
“Many tests, few new answers, long-time problem.”
He was hoping to go home on the day he was writing me.
Yet, as he always does in his lovely letters, he described the beauty he was finding in the world around him.
Started by telling me how much he was enjoying the quality and variety of food they served him. And how grateful he was for the care and the company of the staff.
And then, this …
“Jesus, talks of ‘The least of these,’ … helping, dealing with, the least, lowest of these.
Allie, hospital pusher of wheelchairs, lowest of lowest hospital staff, pushing me today … 30-33 years old, plain, drab reddish color uniform.
My inquisitiveness, ‘Is Allie a short version of your full name?’
‘Yes.”
Silence.
‘Is your full name Alicia?’
‘Yes! You are the first person in my life to guess my full name!’
Amazed smile, new relationship … between lowly patient, and lowly pusher.
And another blessed, new friend today, to share my 91 years — of God’s gifts!”
The weakening but still beating heart of a humbled soul still fully alive and leaning his flickering candle to the world around him.
His words immediately reminded me of my Dad, who, even when — especially when — he was at his most vulnerable, would go out of his way to make the people around him feel good.
“Boy you’re good at this,” I remember him saying to the hospice caregiver while she was changing the sheets in his bed with him still in it.
“You sure know your way around this place,” I remember him saying to the orderly whisking him in his wheelchair during one of his frequent hospital visits.
To remain fully present to the world around you when forces are conspiring against you, even when you are at your most vulnerable?
Well, let’s just say that there’s a lot to be learned from the Jims and Neal Riddells of the world.
And from all those who keep time according to their own internal clocks.
Jim’s words convicted me.
Doused holy water on my Seething Protocols.
Reminded me that there are far more dire circumstances than being a few minutes late to a movie.
And, most importantly, reminded me to appreciate the blessings of our days.
Of triple-tag-teaming the yardwork.
Sitting and sweating in the shade.
Getting to choose.
Watching the Greatest Dawdler of All Time … still perfecting his craft.
By the time Jim’s Saturday sermon finished reading me, I was as grateful as an old army chaplain for the variety of hospital food he would soon be missing.
For the record, it was 4:43 when we locked the back door behind us.
As I spied Peter’s car in the corner of the driveway, I pointed to the empty bottle of motor oil resting on the ground in front of its grill.
Said to my son what I imagined my Dad would’ve said.
“Boy, you’re pretty good at taking care of your car.”
No heavy themes or deep-thinking required.
Thirty-nine minutes later … we walked into the darkened and wonderfully air-conditioned Theater #4 at the Manor.
Was saddened to learn of the recent passings of a couple humans who were both significant figures in my musical growings up … Bob Mascia and Ralph Bill. Sending love and condolences to their families and to all that loved them and will miss them.
They both influenced a ton of young musicians, having both served as band directors at Brownsville High School. I believe Bob may have actually followed Ralph in the role.
I was not one of their band students.
And I only really knew them for a fraction of my life, which was even a smaller fraction of theirs. But though I hadn’t seen either in decades, knowing them was — and will always remain — meaningful.
As does the fact that I’m writing this on an otherwise nameless summer Sunday afternoon.
__
I was 13 years old and standing in the kitchen after school one day while Mom was getting dinner ready.
When Dad came home from Sherwin Williams, walked in the kitchen and promptly informed me — outta nowhere — that he’d signed me up for drum lessons. And that he’d already met with the teacher, and made it clear that I was to learn all styles of music, “not just rock,” (I can still hear Dad’s voice emphasizing those words) … including waltzes, bossa novas, cha-chas, rhumbas, tangos, and of course, jazz and swing.
The specificity with which he relayed his expectations made it all feel like a foregone conclusion. But I was an agreeable kid, and drums were cool … so my reaction was along the lines of, “Ok.”
Bob was my drum teacher. He graduated high school with my older sister Missy (she reminded me that Bob played the lead in the high school musical their senior year – The Music Man — while she played piano).
At the time of Dad’s kitchen conversation, Bob was playing steady in a local rock band and filling in with a few others, including the group my Dad played with — Sammy Bill’s Orchestra.
Gave drum lessons on the side downtown at Ellis’ Music Store.
First thing I learned?
Drums don’t start cool.
I got a pair of sticks and a rubber pad the size of a piece of Texas Toast.
Was informed that I had to learn snare drum before I’d be allowed anywhere near a set. For my parents, it was like a stay of execution.
Bob taught me how to read music, how to count quarter notes, eighths and sixteenths, what triplets were, how to bounce my sticks for open rolls. Graduated me to Charles Wilcoxin’s rudiments … paradiddles, drags and ruffs, and rolls of every dynamic, shape and size: fives, sevens, nines, seventeens, with an odd eleven and thirteen thrown in for good measure(s).
I was always somewhere between good and bad, never quite religious in my practicing.
But I stuck with it.
And a couple years into lessons, Dad surprised with the best Christmas present I’d ever receive — a set of Pearl drums from Ellis’.
I began alternating my weekly lessons with Bob between set and snare.
I remember my very first lesson on set, Bob teaching me the building blocks of how to assemble a couple basic beats.
Eighth notes on the hi-hat with my left hand (I’m a lefty), backbeat on two and four with my right on the snare, opening the high hat with my right foot on the ‘and’ of one and closing it on ‘two.’ Gave me two variations for the bass drum — four on the floor, and an alternate where the kick drum hit on “one” and “three-and.”
I still remember the exhilaration of the first time getting all four limbs to hold a groove.
It was a teenager’s equivalent of pedaling a bike under your own power for the first time. The inexpressible freedom that comes from being responsible for your own locomotion in the world. I can tell you the feeling’s the same whether the locomotion is physical or sonic. The Big Bang it was to me.
At last, drums were cool.
Occasionally I’d arrive a few minutes early for my Saturday morning lesson, climb to the top of the steps and find Bob just messing around on the kit.
Oh, was he a monster.
Every time I heard him play, from the first time to whenever the last may have been, I was in awe.
Got to hear him play once with Sam’s band. Though he held back for the kind of dance music they performed, he still couldn’t help overflowing the banks with his prowess.
It’s hard to keep a Ferrari tame.
__
Fast forward to the summer after ninth grade.
I was in the kitchen on an otherwise nameless Sunday afternoon, Mom fixing an early dinner since Dad had a gig that night. They played every third Sunday at the Moose in Perryopolis, three easy hours for an always appreciative crowd. Dad always loved that gig.
It had rained all afternoon, torrential summer thunderstorms … the kind that percussively pummeled and waterfalled rain on the aluminum awning on our tiny front porch.
The phone rang and I remember walking from the kitchen to answer it. It was Sam, calling to let my Dad know that the Moose had lost power from the storms and that the gig was cancelled.
I remember Dad being bummed, but also relieved to get his Sunday night back so he could prep for work the next day.
About 45 minutes later, we were eating dinner at the table when the phone rang again. It was Sam calling back to say that the power had come back on at the Moose … so the gig was on.
So Dad resumed his gig-prep ritual, getting a shower, doing his teeth (which took a good 30-45 minutes. I’m not sure there was ever a trumpet player more meticulous about his teeth), laying out his suit, his mute bag, etc.
No big deal.
Until the phone rang for a third time. Sam again. He’d gotten a hold of everyone except Bob. In the age before cel phones, when answering machines were still a novelty, you either got a hold of someone or you didn’t. Sam figured that Bob must’ve gone out to eat or something after learning that the gig was off.
“Tell Pete to get ready, just in case Bob doesn’t call me back,” Sam told my Dad.
Upon which I promptly started freaking out.
I’d tagged along on a couple of my Dad’s gigs, had listened to a couple cassette tapes of the band he’d given me, so I wasn’t completely unfamiliar with the music. But my drums had never left my practice room. I didn’t even have cases for them. I remember taking them apart that afternoon for the first time, afraid I wouldn’t remember how they went back together. When I wasn’t freaking out, I was praying that Sam would call back saying he’d gotten a hold of Bob.
Alas, a fourth call never came.
The rain had long since stopped by the time Mac came to pick us up. I remember carrying my cymbal stands out one by one, gingerly laying them down in the back of his Chevy Suburban, covering them with blankets so they wouldn’t be tempted to roll.
When we were done loading the truck, Mac commented, “They look like dead bodies.”
Not the encouragement I was looking for.
When we got to the Moose, Dad helped me set things back up and bought me a Pepsi to calm my nerves. Sam loaned me an oversized tux jacket, and a gratuitously large, velvet, clip-on black bow tie that wore crooked.
I’ll never forget his only instruction to me, which he delivered with his signature calmness: “As long as you begin and end with the rest of the band, you’ll be fine.”
By the time everybody tuned up and gathered on the bandstand, I was in full panic. I gave my full attention to Sam’s every word and gesture, locking into the tempos as he counted off the tunes.
But once a tune shoved off from shore, one person became my life preserver — Ralph, Sam’s son, who played keyboard. I hyper-focused on Ralph’s left hand, which he used to play the bass lines. Ralph’s left hand told me everything I needed to know about each tune … whether it was a foxtrot, a jump tune, a bossa nova, cha-cha … on down the line.
I remember little else about that evening other than surviving the longest three hours of my life … thanks to a constant stream of advice and encouragement from Alice (our singer) and the guys in the band.
When it was over, I gratefully collected their smiles and handshakes, and then collected myself before turning my full attention to trying to remember how to tear my drums back down. Then Sam came over to me. Asked me to put out my hand.
Into which he put $25 … my share of the evening’s take.
I still can vividly recall my 15-year-old self’s feeling of surprise and exhilaration as I stared at the money in my hand. It felt like a million bucks to me.
In that humble transaction, I went from being a scared-shi*tless 15-year-old to being a professional musician.
I remember Bob making a point of that during my next lesson.
“No, I’m not,” I tried to quickly dismiss.
“You were paid for your services … that makes you a professional,” Bob informed me, setting the record straight.
Sam paying me was only the second most significant thing he did that night, though.
He asked if I’d be his regular drummer.
He said he was looking for someone who could make all the gigs. Bob sometimes played with other groups, forcing Sam to find subs. He wanted someone steady.
I can tell you with 100% certainty that there was nothing in my performance that evening that earned me the invitation. And I never grew to be more than one-tenth the drummer Bob was. But I never gave Sam a chance to reconsider his offer.
And, you know what? Bob never said a single word about my displacing him.
So, for the next 13 years, I got to share a bandstand with my Dad.
And with Ralph, too.
__
When I think of Ralph, I think of how much fun he had while playing music. When his hands weren’t on the keys, he kept the band in stitches telling jokes. From the moment we’d arrive at a hall through set-up. Between sets. While we were tearing down and loading up. How he loved making people laugh.
And, oh how he loved good food, too. The more unpretentious the surroundings, the better, as far as he was concerned. I can still hear Ralph saying, “You can’t eat atmosphere,” a line that I still quote to this day whenever I find myself enjoying delicious food in less than fancy surroundings. I credit Ralph every time I quote him.
__
As I was driving Route 40 towards Brownsville a couple Wednesday’s ago to pay respects at Ralph’s visitation, I found myself thinking of all the New Year’s Eve gigs we played together. After playing Auld Lang Syne at midnight, the band would stand up and we’d shake hands. I always set my drums up next to Ralph’s keyboard, so Ralph’s was usually the first hand I’d shake in the new year. I can say as I write this I now consider that an honor.
When I got to the funeral home, I spent a few minutes looking at the old photos they had placed around the room, mostly of Ralph’s life in music and love of family. There were a couple pictures of Sam’s old bands, one from the very early days, and a later one from when we played together. Sam in the front row in his white tux, Ralph smiling from behind the keyboard. Dad in the middle of the trumpet section, and me in crooked bow tie and glorious mullet.
“So many of them are gone, now,” Ralph’s wife Hillary said of the photo, when I offered my condolences. “Sam, now Ralph, your Dad … Roger … Diz.”
It’d been about 25 years since we’d last seen each other. Hillary used to come on some of the gigs. I invited Karry on a couple New Year’s Eves and they’d keep each other company.
“I remember the first time you played,” Hillary recalled. “You wrapped your drums in blankets.”
I told her that Ralph’s left hand was pretty much responsible for getting me through that first gig. And how much I treasured those times.
On my way out, I signed the registry, taking note of the names of some of the guys I was fortunate enough to play with all those years ago.
I didn’t stay long.
Just long enough to be reminded of days of Auld Lang Syne, and what good days those were.
Learning of Bob’s passing barely a week later … I was reminded that none of those days would have even been possible without Bob’s presence in my life … and his absence one rainy Sunday afternoon.
When Karry was pregnant with Emma, people would ask Peter, who was three at the time, whether he wanted a little brother or a little sister.
His answer was always the same.
“No.”
That one still cracks me up.
I mean, for a three-year-old … that’s a glorious comeback, right there.
And when I called Karry’s Mom from the hospital to let her know it was, in fact, a girl … and Betty, in turn, informed Peter (who she was watching while we were at the hospital), he made a beeline for the kitchen sink, climbed in the space underneath it, and shut the door behind him.
Years later, whenever people would ask me about our kids, I’d find myself saying, “My son’s ____ (16 … 18 … 20, etc.) , and he’s still getting used to the fact that he has a little sister.”
All of the above, true.
So … to be gathered around the table last night in our tiny dining room, surrounded by all our Christmas and life clutter …
… the four of us slow-savoring every bite of the by-request chocolate meringue flourless cake big brother made his little sister for her 20th birthday …
… listening to them geeking out with each other about the cake’s cross section …
… him sharing with her how the recipe’s author discovered how to do the marbling on top, and how he was meticulous in following the directions … for fear of all the inherent gluten-free and dairy-free landmines …
… how he’s never been one to follow directions … a proud by-product of the Fordyce stubborness he comes by honestly …
… getting to bear witness to a big brother’s pride in receiving his little sister’s approval.
Forgive me if it’s gonna take me awhile to get used to that fact.
I mean, that he wanted to get it just right for her.
Let’s just say … such sweetness is worth the wait.
The fortuitous timing of turning back the clocks gifting us an extra hour to make an 8:30 a.m. start time at Station Square.
Karry’s words before I left the house: “Enjoy your time with your son.” Until she said them, my mind was anxious about whether or not I had 10 miles in me (the odds far from guaranteed). Her six words melted my anxiety on the spot, reminding me that the morning in front of me was not to be measured by distance. A reminder that I can’t hear often enough: that what we do is not what we are doing. That it’s not about arriving. It’s about being resident.
Being among the first Sunday morning passengers on the T at South Hills. Watching and listening to it fill up, stop by stop … all shapes, sizes, colors and ages. A crescendo of expectation. By the time we arrived at Station Square, it was filled to overflowing. Spilling out onto the sidewalk to make the pilgrimage over to Highmark Stadium. The loud music and announcer calling us from a distance. The feeling of being part of a summoning.
Shortly after starting, going across the West End Bridge and looking right to see Pittsburgh glistening under the clearest, crispiest blue sky. A lone boat had the confluence all to itself, its wake billowing behind, regal as a queen’s robe. The sun and the scene conspiring to almost make me cry it was so Sunday morning beautiful.
About 2 miles in, I caught Peter on a slight down hill somewhere on the North Side. I stayed just behind him, careful to remain outside of his peripheral vision. I didn’t want to risk him seeing me and feeling compelled to slow down his pace on my behalf. Content to just let him be my pacer for a little bit. What Grace to have lived long enough to follow in my son’s footsteps.
My playlist serving up the best medicine exactly when I needed it. Three miles in, Frank Sinatra crooning, “Nice and Easy,” me hearing Frank’s finger snaps in the mix for the first time. He couldn’t resist … the band was swinging so much. By the last choruses, I couldn’t either. Me and Frank in the rocking chair as it were. Ol’ Blue Eyes subsequently passing the baton to Pancho Sanchez, Rage Against the Machine, Lauryn Hill, AC/DC, Levon and The Band, Morgan Harper Nichols, Indigo Girls and a chorus of other encouragers. One of my best mixtapes ever, if we’re bein’ honest here.
The cheerleaders, mascots, DJs, cow-bell ringers, kids, friends, significants, seniors, families and neighbors who came to root. Especially the two drumlines throwing down. When I saw they had their hands full, I made sure to applaud them.
About six miles in, passing under an archway that read, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” Proly woulda cried at that point, too, if I hadn’t been holding on to my tears for miles 9 and 10.
Between miles 7 and 8 we ran on Penn Avenue through the Strip District. It was as close as I’ll ever come to imagining what Stallone had in mind running Rocky through the streets of Philadelphia. Penn Avenue’s melting pot holding down the Strip’s legacy while the world squeezes in on all sides.
Pretty much over the whole endeavor by mile 8, but also knowing I’d run too far to give up. Muscling through the last two on fumes and a blistered and calloused right foot. Accepting every hi-5 offered by folks encouraging from the sidewalk. A thousand bonus points to the saints holding the Mario-inspired “TOUCH FOR POWER BOOST” signs down the home stretch.
Visited Longwood Gardens (just south of Philly) with Karry and Emma last Saturday. It’s in the category of places I would never choose to visit of my own volition, so am grateful to be carried along in the current of their enthusiasms. It may be the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited. I know this to be true based on the number of times I said WOW as an involuntary response. Been thinking since about how the WOWs were exactly the same size whether I was stepping back to look up at a sinewy redwood gathering to its greatness, leaning in to inhale a climbing rose’s secrets, or riveted in place listening to a catbird singing Saturday morning opera.
The place is sprawling, and there was a moment where Karry and Em headed to the conservatory (and its greenhouse of a thousand WOWs), while I went to track down a waterfall we’d seen only at a distance. Traced a canopied path (WOW) to a small landing a few feet from the middle of the waterfall, where I found an empty rocking chair.
So I sat and listened for a hundred years, by which I mean almost long enough.
Twenty-four hours later I’d exchanged the rocking chair for my backseat nook in Karry’s Jeep, where I was comfortably crammed for the long pilgrimage home so Em could finally begin savoring her summer. We’d either grossly over-estimated the Jeep’s storage capacity, or grossly under-estimated our daughter’s belongings. Or both. On our way outta town, they paused so I could enjoy a Father’s Day bagel and lox for the ride. I tuned into a radio program just as the interviewees were referencing Harry James, who was my Dad’s inspiration on trumpet growing up. The Universe’s serendipity game is indeed strong.
I was as comfy and content as a rocking chair by a waterfall.
Just wanted to bookmark a Father’s Day weekend that pretty much perfectly summed up the gig.
Carried on the current of their enthusiasms to places beyond my capacity to even imagine. Involuntary WOWs everywhere, if you only remember to look up, lean in, and listen. Grateful for the small wedge still reserved for me in the back seat of their adventures.
It’s pushing past noon when I hear my son, upstairs and recently awake, deftly float a question to his mother.
“If I went to Shorty’s, would you want me to bring you one back?”
It was an exquisite ask. The phrasing, brilliant.
He didn’t ask if she wanted to go to lunch. He didn’t say that he was even going. And he didn’t ask “Do you want anything from Shorty’s?”
He served the proposition on a platter, and in so doing, made it irresistible.
I couldn’t hear Karry’s response, but after he and I made a successful post office drop just before their 1 p.m. close, we found ourselves parallel parking into the one open spot along West Chestnut Street.
Couldn’t tell you the last time we hit up Shorty’s on a Saturday afternoon. Actually, I could if I looked at my camera reel. Which is funny when I think about it, because we get exactly the same thing every time. The only thing that changes in my photo documentation is whether the plates are sitting on the counter or — if no open seats there — a table. Makes me think of that time at the newspaper when the fellas in the sports department gave grief to the guy who’d laid out the section’s cover page the day before. To accompany a preview of the Kentucky Derby, the guy included the head shots of all the horses. Which, when you think about it, is ridiculous … since all the horses’ faces pretty much look the same.
But, is it any more ridiculously logical than taking the same photo of hot dogs again and again … and again?
Point is, it’d been a minute since we jingled Shorty’s door open on a Saturday afternoon, pausing a beat to acknowledge the Grill Guy at the Window before surveying the, um, untouched-by-time, interior for an open seat.
Can I just say?
Depositing one’s keister atop a stool at Shorty’s lunch counter on a Saturday afternoon is one of life’s great capital “A” Arrival-ings.
It’s an exhale.
An unburdening.
A ‘We Made It’ through the week.
A We Are Here Now.
There will likely be fist bumps.
Because you know.
You know that within a minute of sitting down, one of the waitresses will float in front of you and ask if you’re ready to order.
You know exactly what you’re going to say. Sh*t … you knew the moment you made the conscious choice to gift your Saturday. The only decision requiring any deliberation is whether you and your co-pilot are feeling trusting enough to share a large fry with gravy, or go with two smalls to guarantee a 50-50 split.
You know that, seconds after your order, your waitress will yell loud enough for both the Grill Guy at the Window and the Guy Dunking Fries in the Kitchen to hear.
You know that the sound of her voice will register to your ears the way you imagine some folks hear opera.
You know that within 90 seconds, your plated dogs will be placed in front of you.
For me, two with everything. For the boy, one every, one ketchup and onions. In Shorty’s parlance “everything” does not connote gratuitousness (i.e. the kitchen sink), but, rather, sufficient-ness, lacking of nothing — finely (and I mean, finely) diced onions, a squirt of yellow mustard, and a slather of their no-beans-just-a-bit-of-ground-beef chili. Cue angel chorus.
You know that your fries with gravy will trail just a minute behind, since you asked for them to be well-done, which is how the pros do it, FWIW.
You know that you will wait for everything to arrive before you and your co-pilot make ceremony of your respective first bites.
You know that you will allow a couple extra beats for your co-pilot to lightly crop dust the fries with a sprinkle of salt and then as many morocco shakes of the pepper as it takes to ensure thorough coverage across the plate.
You know that it will be perfect, and not in any kind of throwaway sense.
During our reverie I found myself conjuring a passage I copied into my journal a year or so ago. I poorly paraphrased it for Peter, but gave him enough to catch my drift, and nod in affirmation.
The passage is from a tribute that Joe Posnanski wrote back in 2020 upon the passing of the writer Roger Khan. Appearing in The Athletic, Posnanski wrote of how Khan’s masterwork, “The Boys of Summer,” changed his life. The piece struck me in the moment and has stuck with me since for two reasons. “The Boys of Summer” changed my life, too. It was the first book I remember reading for pleasure in college, the summer after my junior year. A book that taught me that good sportswriters were just good writers who happened to write sports. A book that, looking back, was among a small handful of cosmic forces that spat me into giving sportswriting a shot after graduation. The second reason was the exquisite language Posnanski used when describing Khan’s chronicle of his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers. I looked it up in my journal so I could get it right here.
“The Boys of Summer” might not be the best book I have read, just like “The Princess Bride” might not be the best movie I have seen and spaghetti and meatballs might not be the best meal I have had and Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke” might not be the best song I have heard and chocolate cake might not be the best dessert I’ve eaten. But it is, to me, the most perfect book, just as the rest are the most perfect examples of joy.
Those might not be the best lines I’ve scribbled into my journal. But, to me, they are the most perfect lines.
And capture exactly how I feel about Shorty’s on a Saturday afternoon. The only reason Posnanski didn’t mention Shorty’s by name in his enumeration is that he’s obviously never tried to find a parking spot on West Chestnut Street on his lunch hour.
“This is perfect,” I actually said aloud to Peter when swabbing the last fry across the bottom of our plate to soak as much of the remaining gravy as its absorptive properties would allow. He’d gifted me the last few on the plate after realizing the significant dent he’d put in the pile.
We shoulda gone two smalls.
A second later our waitress set down the brown to-go bag containing Karry’s go-to — one with ketchup, mustard and onions.
Asks us if we need anything else.
The question always begets a hesitation. Born of both respect and serious consideration.
You know you could totally go for a third, no problem. You’ve done it in the past with zero regrets. There was also that one time you may or may not have gone for a fourth.
But you remind yourself that the experience is not about gratuitousness but, rather, sufficient-ness.
So Peter settles up with the grill guy at the window, who doubles as the cash-only cashier.
And we backwash out the door, appreciating the gift of the slight downhill walk back to the car and the little bit of sun peeking through the clouds …
“What time should we leave?” Emma, the organized one, asked me the night before, whereupon I did the math in my head, which family history has proven time and time again really means, “a slight majority of the math.” Looked up the drive on Google, which placed it around 30 minutes. Should be good if we leave by 10, I guesstimated. “I’ll set my alarm for 9:50,” my son informed me, which prompted me to suggest, unsuccessfully, we leave by 9:45. Which means we left at 10:10, which got us there at 10:45, which left us just enough time to park, pick up our bibs, and evacuate any remaining bodily fluids before taking our place at the back of the pack of already stretched and warmed-up humans massed at the starting line.
Our tight window robbed me of sharing the signature element of my pre-plannning. For motivation I was going to play Kurt Russell’s Herb Brooks’ “Miracle” speech before we got out of the car. Remind them that they were, you know, born to be hockey players. Alas.
To be fair … it’d been four years since the last time I’d participated in an organized race, so was a bit out of practice. And to be honest, I never really was what one would call ‘in practice.’ In the handful of 5 and 10Ks I’d begrudgingly participated in the couple years before the pandemic, I was never in charge of any of the planning. All of that fell to my ‘running buddy,’ Jason, whose default is to subjugate every detail to his monarchical rule. He’d prompt our registration, then spec our departure time and the ensuing directions. My race day responsibilities were limited to a light stretch followed by (a.) watching the back of Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, and then (b.) concentrating all of my energies on not puking down the front of me while maintaining operating control of my bowels until the whole unpleasantness was over.
It was the memory of one such episode that prompted me this New Year’s Eve to casually mention to Peter that I’d seen that there was a “Resolution 5K” run in Oakdale on New Year’s Day. Five New Year’s Eve’s ago, as I was a couple Moscow Mules into my evening, Jason texted me a link to that year’s race, accompanied by, “You in?” I remember convincing myself that my third Moscow Mule was spiritually akin to the training montage in Rocky IV where Stallone is carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter. From what I recall, my next day’s performance was, in fact, a fair simulacrum of an overmatched, middle-aged man carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter.
I hadn’t really asked Peter if he was interested in this year’s version, so was surprised when he responded to my dissemination of the fact with, “I’ll do it.” Nor was I expecting Emma’s response after I informed her that I’d signed Peter and me up. “Sign me up, too.” Neither had ever done a 5K before.
Seconds after doing so, apparently in the throes of what science calls a “runner’s high,” I wandered into the dining room and informed Karry of our New Year’s Day plans and asked if she wanted to ride with us and, you know, cheer us along. Which prompted the following exchange.
So it was ‘just’ the three of us standing in the light snow in 30-degree weather seconds before the start of the race, whereupon Peter asked if we’d be running together or just doing our own thing.
“Do your own thing,” I advised, since I wasn’t quite sure what any of our things were.
Since we were waaaaaayyyyyy in the back of the pack, I spent the first couple minutes maneuvering around participants either walking or easing into things (whose better judgement qualified every single one of them to be my Life Coach). Managed to carve out some space and was settling into a rhythm when a guy runs up along side me and asks me what my pace is. I hadn’t thought to consider that data point prior to his asking. I looked at my phone and saw I was matriculating at a 7:43 clip. Had I been sipping a Moscow Mule at that moment I would’ve reacted with my first spit take of the New Year. From what I could remember that was about a minute faster than my pre-pandemic pace. The voice in my head immediately channeled my Inner Karry — “[emphatic decline employing surprisingly colorful verbiage].”
“That’s my pace, too!” he said enthusiastically. “My name’s Jason,” he said cheerfully. (Apparently I’m a magnet for Racin’ Jasons.) “Do you have a target today?” he asked. Since we’d just met I couldn’t give him my honest answer — “Not pooping my pants” — instead opting for a simple “No.” Undaunted, he asked me if I intended to maintain my pace the rest of the way.
I took a deep breath and replied: “Look, before we get too far into this relationship, I’m not who you think I am. I’m living a lie right now. If I keep up this charade one of us is going to end up on the side of the trail bleating like a heifer giving birth to triplets before we hit the turnaround. You look like a nice enough fellow, but this … this is never going to work. The best thing for you to do right now is to leave me. Forget we ever met. Go, just go. Go live a life. And whatever you do … promise me you will never, ever look back.”
All of which came out of my mouth as, “Nope,” as I knew I would need all my breaths for the foreseeable future.
As I found an odd reassurance in watching New Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, I began to recall my previous race experiences. Turns out that running is just like riding a bike, except way harder … and with lots more awful running involved. I was reminded that the first mile is always further than it seems. “Surely I’ve run a mile by now,” I think to myself about a quarter of a mile in.
And the second mile is always The Worst. I refer to it as the “Seriously, what were you thinking?” mile. It’s just mean. Apparently it had a difficult upbringing. Probably overbearing parents. Most likely a bed wetter. Even when I’m running longer distances, the second mile just mercilessly taunts me.
Nevertheless, I managed to make it to the turnaround, and shortly thereafter, my phone let me know I’d made it two miles … upon which I convinced myself that this would all be over soon. Found someone just slightly ahead of me that was ambling at a reasonable pace and settled in behind them.
Stole a glance at my phone when I was about 23 minutes in. Figured I only had about three-ish minutes left to go. At which point my endorphins began to ask me my thoughts on a potential finishing kick.
“Good one,” I responded before realizing that my endorphins, much like my wife, are not kidders.
I hadn’t reached three miles yet, so was in no great hurry to make any rash decisions.
Then all of a sudden this very tall, bearded dude zooms past me. In full gallop. Like, really going for it, Kentucky-Derby-style. Sizing him up I figured he was likely in my age group. I was genuinely impressed. “Wow,” I thought. Clearly he had a plan that involved more than just maintaining a good grip on his bowels. “Good luck with … all that,” I mentally saluted as he sped past.
A couple minutes later, my phone tells me I’m at three miles. And when I look up, I see that I’m actually gaining on Tall Bearded Dude, who was now visibly scuffling down the home stretch. Looked like his bowels wanted a word with him. Kicked a little too early, evidently.
Hubris.
Which my endorphins and I discovered is apparently contagious in men of my age group.
“We’re taking this f*cker down!” my endorphins exclaimed.
“Language!” I scolded in reply, before putting my metaphorical pedal to the metal, which reacted with all the responsiveness of my parents’ 1980 Mercury Monarch that I learned to drive on.
“OK, give us a minute here,” my body replied … before marshaling all my remaining faculties into a barely perceptible acceleration, which catapulted me past Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy in a turn of events that surprised me almost but not quite as much Brigette Nielsen when Rocky drew blood from Ivan Drago.
As the finish line came into view up ahead, I somehow managed to keep TBPP Guy in my wake while retaining a majority of the bodily ingredients I’d started with, including a teensy measure of pride.
After catching my breath I sought out Peter and Emma and found them upright and in tact as well. We made our way to the community center for some water, and to steal a glance at the posted results just for funsies. Both Peter and I finished sixth in our respective age groups (even more impressive for him, as he was fighting a bit of a chest cold), while Emma finished third in her female age group, earning a tiny medal. Not bad for a coupla first timers.
Driving home in a car redolent with the aroma of our respective Ks, I was reminded of what I used to appreciate about participating in races. They’re invariably mini exercises in aliveness. Of the conscious choice to sign up. Of the sacred act of pulling a shirt over your head and lacing your shoes. Of stretching to give your body its best chance. Of seeking out your place amongst kindred spirits at different places along their respective journeys. Of watching the backs of jerseys getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Of humbling second miles where your inner voice gains the upper hand. Of appreciating that there will always be folks faster than you, and folks content with taking their own good time, and many lessons to be learned from both. And that you are probably both of those things to those around you, too. Opportunities to push yourself a little harder than you otherwise might … and seeing what happens. Heck, if it were up to me I’d give a tiny medal to Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy — for not waiting until he was ready to give it all he had. Better late than never, you know?
Summing the math on the above — or at least the slight majority of the math — aliveness is the blessing of the Racin’ Jasons and Peters and Emmas in my life … people who both ask and answer questions that I don’t always have the courage to ask myself, and who push me to see how fast and far I might be able to go.
And who make me want to be a little bit better next time.
I can still hear the sound … the vibrating clasps of his trumpet case, cracking open from the back room.
The ritual, reverberating release. A sound of dedication. I remember it clear as yesterday because I heard it so often growing up. Followed by him trudging dutifully downstairs, closing the basement door behind him … to disappear the world for a bit.
Scales on repeat. Low tones held long, the horn players’ equivalent of planking. After a good half hour or more woodshedding, he’d always save room for dessert. Whatever he was feeling in that moment on that day, always rubato so there was ample space for his spirit to move. Sometimes blues, sometimes Harry James, sometimes a classic … a la Mood Indigo.
The joy of each and every gig. From my drumset, from my best seat in the house, I’d look over to my right to catch him standing up a couple bars before a solo. He’d tip the mic up, limber his fingers for a microsecond, draw a deep inhale, bend his knees, lean back, close his eyes … and just blow. On occasion, he’d confess to me on break, “Got a good lip tonight.” When I heard that, I’d lo-key petition Sam the bandleader for something that featured a couple choruses … maybe “Woodchopper’s Ball,” or “Tuxedo Junction.” He prided himself on never playing the same solo twice … save when he’d pay respects to James’ sinister intro on “Two O’Clock Jump,” or signature sweetness on “You Made Me Love You” (game respects game). Writing the names … I can still conjure his heart and tone in notes long since gifted to the ether.
Even after age and the frictions of the late nights and travel nudged him to give up gigging, he’d still shed. Dutifully downstairs to his sacred space …. or to his bedroom when the basement steps became too much. For years and years. After his quadruple bypass. After the aneurysms. After heart failure. After each, he couldn’t wait to pick up his horn. Get back at it. Always gave him something to look forward to. In the hospital … he relished when they’d want to test his lungs, giving him this plastic apparatus to blow into, see how high he could make a red ball in the tube go, and for how long he could hold it there. He’d hand the thing back to the nurse afterwards like droppin’ a mic. “I’m a trumpet player,” he’d say with pride.
I remember once visiting with him at the kitchen table in the days after Mom passed, and him excusing himself … to practice … going back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Then the sound of the clasps. The scales. Then … WIL-low weep … for me … WIL-low … weep … for me .… Mourning in rubato. Disappearing the world for a bit.
Even in his last years, even in his failing health, whenever I’d call or stop, he’d update me on his practicing. “I think I’m getting stronger,” he’d always say, referring to his lip and lungs. He was always looking forward.
When I got older, if I wasn’t able to visit him on his birthday, I’d call. “Hey, dad,” I’d say when he’d answer. Then …
“Peeeeeete!”
How his voice would pitch up a couple notes in excitement. Every time. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t excited to hear from me. I don’t recall him ever saying it wasn’t a good time.
“Peeeete!”
I think I might miss that sound more than the sound of his horn.
It’s a very human and comforting thing to imagine what loved ones might be doing in the hereafter.
So, on what would’ve been his 96th birthday earlier this week, here is my imagining ….
After cringing through the angels and Mom serenading him “Happy Birthday,” (Mom always sang flat, he often lamented), taking his sweet time making his wish, extinguishing all the candles in one shot with his trumpet lungs, summarily housing an entire Bob Evans Banana Cream pie by himself, then washing it down with a Jamocha shake from Arby’s (bottomless, his appetite), and taking a good hour ‘doing his teeth’ as his belly settled …
Dessert.
… the glorious release of the reverberating claps on his case, shedding for a bit to get loose … then hopping on stage to jam with a proper upright bass player, a pianist who knows from fat, juicy chords, and a drummer laying it down … knees bent, eyes closed, leaning back, taking chorus after chorus after chorus on a B-flat blues, making time melt playing to the wee hours.
How I can hear the sounds.
Standing in the back row, middle … so much good music yet to come.
Letters for Maggie 